


Woodkid

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Experimental, F/M, M/M, Mindfuck, POV First Person, grunge sex, non-romantic het hookup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know I’m that 90 percent, Dean.  Trust me when I say you’re not the 10.  So get in the saddle and fucking ride. </p><p>Demon!Dean POV, Dean/Anne-Marie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woodkid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zara_Zee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zara_Zee/gifts).



> For **zara_zee** 's prompt, “Just why did Demon!Dean, uh, fornicate with the barmaid Anne-Marie in Crowley's bed?”

I’m gonna make a few things real clear.

This shit? It ain’t important.

You tell me her name is Anne-Marie.

She keeps wedding photos of her divorced parents above her microwave; she has no pictures of her boyfriend. It’s probably not a pathology thing. She’s probably into you. Sometimes she takes off early because she likes to watch the sun down. It’s not a romantic, naturebird thing, because please, this is the Dakotas--she’s got better things to be doing. But that glimpse of the sun, a red iris ringed in white, reminds her of the ending to a sci-fi movie she saw once as a girl. She’s always thought it was cool and anyway she hates closing. She wears an unexpected size 10 shoe. She did track at school, but back then she also smoked. She was still better at running then than she is now. 

She’s afraid of the female orgasm. Mostly because she thinks one day it’ll get up and walk away. She’s convinced if a thing doesn’t happen quick it’s because it’s secretly trying to leave you.

She re-numbers the pages in all her books, because she hates that they never count the preface, the blank pages. She reads everything. She has not read many books, because she hates when she can guess the endings.

She’s good at that. She’s the only one you’ve met who’s ever made real money off Super Bowl bets; even you’re not that good.

You’re actually not good, period. Because here we are, you and me. And I guess I should be clear, since I meant what I said: We’re actually just you. You had these conversations with yourself on long nights in the Impala, in mirrors, in Sam’s absences. Just because you died don’t change that. You know I’m not new--just dressed to impress.

You could spin a wheel packed silly with AC/DC lyrics and it’d land on anything, it could still describe us. 

Anne-Marie’s good at guessing Wheel of Fortune, too.

People get real wet when you can remember stuff like that--all their sordid, banal details. But you realize it’s amenability more than curiosity on your part, right? You’re not gonna grow old together, and you don’t have to remember. This is not The Notebook. You’re leaving. Your memories are only a work habit.

I’m here to remind you: You don’t really care. Maybe you like her story because it makes you a part of the real world, for one stupid moment, but don’t tell me you’ve never been bored.

What makes me a prison to you isn’t my wrongness--not in any alien way, in any case. I’m just uncanny--so close to your skin you can feel me dance down your hairs. I’m horror with a light touch, like when you dream your reality and when you wake you can’t ever be sure  
(not entirely)  
whether it happened or not.

I’m the you that could have been--and have been, really. In drops and pieces, like someone sampling the waters. You remember that time in Sebastopool. 

You’re not proud of that, are you. Santa Ana, too. Man, that was a rough year for you, wasn’t it?

You should have been arrested in Santa Ana (you know what I’m talking about--that time, with the pool). It wasn’t really your fault, at least not that time, but then you told Sara you fucked her mom (or she fucked you--you’ve only been eighteen for four days at this point). She could have thrown you under the bus for that, saved her own ass and taken revenge all in one fell swoop. 

Rest assured, she saved you out of habit, not affection; Sara was a nice girl. Maybe she still is.

You know, you’re kind of a control freak. (Do I sound like your brother yet? Dear Sammy boyking. If I do it’s because you have this in your blood, and it goes back a hell of a lot further than 1983.) But for all that, I’ll give you one thing. You were never afraid of getting taken out. It’s the coming in that shakes you, down to your foundations. Pretty little house somewhere in suburbia--let me peel the walls down for you.

You know, one time when Crowley’s wearing a cowboy hat and sipping something frothy, he sees your eyeballs fucking Anne-Marie. 

He asks me  
(he calls me Dean)   
he asks me, Dean:   
what was the hellest part of Hell?

It wasn’t the torture, was it, Dean; the humiliation. You were raised on that (he says).

You were just afraid of coming into this. 

Come into me, Dean.  
We don’t got all night.   
Come, we have a moon to howl   
down.

I said, come into me.

Yeah, yeah, let your tongue work that one out. (And that one, too.) Dirty talk and innuendo don’t usually get you far, because you’re you and you spread it over speech like butter, but at this point you’ll take anything. Please, I can raise this cock and all it takes is a pretty girl looks like she’s got damage. 

You tell me her name is Anne-Marie.

She tells me she wants it quick and hard and fuck, Dean Winchester, fuck fuck fuck fuck--!

Yeah, it sounds like dumb shit when I hear it back like that, too. It belongs to the moment.

You like her because she’s the only thing you can touch that’s not about power. Her boyfriend--now that’s a whole other story. We’ll get to him. But you’re just her uncomplicated fuck. She’s in it for the sex--really. She’s not gonna be impressed if you know that she likes eating kiwis whole (skin on). You still don’t know anything about her. 

(She’s not planning to let you.)

And I’m gonna let you in on a secret: If she’s the furthest you can get from me, you’ve got a long way to run. Far and close, they’re the same damn thing--we’re living in a soup of paradoxes, in a bar, in a state that’s really not too far from home. You realize that, right?

You thought when you woke up you’d be the King of Hell. You’d burn the world. At the very least, you’d climb some walls. But here you are, all woke up and living a life you always feared you would. You’re afraid of power but one day soon I think you’ll find that failure’s a whole lot worse.

So listen--I’m gonna make a few things clear. You lose me, or get that fucking brother of yours under our skin, all you’re gonna be is a mist of self-pity and poison; and hey, I’m not the one who said it first. You got no claim to anything else now; that’s all gone. You lose me, then you lose him. Because if I go, it means he’s finally lost you, too.

You know I’m that 90%, Dean. Trust me when I say you’re not the 10. So get in the saddle and fucking ride.

You tell me her name is Anne-Marie. I’m here to remind you we don’t care.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is the name of the music artist who wrote the song I linked up top, which I felt was so very S9/10 Dean. <3
> 
> "Iron"
> 
> Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away  
> Where innocence is burned in flames  
> A million mile from home, I'm walking ahead  
> I'm frozen to the bones, I am...
> 
> A soldier on my own, I don't know the way  
> I'm riding up the heights of shame  
> I'm waiting for the call, the hand on the chest  
> I'm ready for the fight and fate
> 
> The sound of iron shocks is stuck in my head,  
> The thunder of the drums dictates  
> The rhythm of the falls the number of deaths  
> The rising of the heights ahead
> 
> From the dawn of time to the end of days  
> I will have to run away  
> I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste  
> Of the blood on my lips again
> 
> The steady burst of snow is burning my hands,  
> I'm frozen to the bones, I am  
> A million mile from home, I'm walking away  
> I can't remind your eyes, your face


End file.
